We stay tangled on her bed, her cheek on my chest. She slips out of bed and into the bathroom.
Once she’s back, she grabs my T-shirt off the chair and slips it on, giving me the cutest shrug when I arch a brow at her.
I don’t mind. She looks better in my clothes than her own.
I pull her into me and bring her covers up to cover us both, wrapping my arm around her.
Being here with Harlow feels natural. Calming in a way I can’t quite explain.
The need to protect her from what’s coming is almost overwhelming, but right now, she’s the one making me feel safe.
And for the first time in years, I feel myself drift off to sleep.
34
HARLOW
Iwake up the next morning feeling oddly rested. Relaxed, even.
For a few seconds, I don’t understand why. Then I realize there’s an arm around my waist and a warmth that I’ve never felt coming from behind me.
Grayson is asleep, his chest pressed to my back, breath even against my neck. Everything smells like him and his soap that carries a hint of mint. His legs are tangled with mine like he went to sleep and decided, quietly, that I wasn’t getting away.
My first instinct is to panic, not because I’m scared of him, but because my brain doesn’t trust peace.
I blink into the pale light leaking through the blinds and wait for the familiar tightness to clamp down on my ribs.
It doesn’t.
My chest rises and falls, but nothing screams.
No adrenaline spike. No nausea. No immediate mental inventory of exits and disaster plans.
Just…quiet.
I swallow hard, different emotions battling for center stage.
I don’t remember the last time I slept like this. Not the exhausted-pass-out kind. Not the I’m-so-tired-my-body-shuts-down kind. The kind where you close your eyes and your nervous system believes it’s allowed to rest.
Years, maybe.
That thought lands heavy and sweet at the same time.
Grayson shifts behind me, half asleep. His hand flexes once at my stomach, thumb making a small, absent circle, like he’s checking I’m still here. My skin sparks, and I hold my breath without realizing it. His mouth brushes my shoulder—barely a kiss, barely awake—and his voice is a low rasp against my skin.
“Morning, beautiful.”
“Morning,” I whisper back, like talking louder might break whatever spell this is.
He hums and pulls me closer in a slow, lazy drag that makes my entire body go hyperaware. His nose presses into my hair like he’s breathing me in. I don’t move. Because the second I move, the world will come back. Practice schedules and campus and Kai and the fact that this is a dorm room and not a pocket dimension where time doesn’t exist. But Grayson’s arm tightens again, and his palm settles flat on my stomach like a promise he isn’t saying out loud.
My voice comes out small. “Did you sleep?”
He lets out a quiet laugh that’s more breath than sound. “I did, actually. I don’t even really remember falling asleep.”
I turn my head just enough to see him, and my heart does that stupid stutter again.
His hair is messed up, his dark lashes framing stormy blues that are still half asleep, mouth relaxed in a way I don’t see when he’s trying to keep himself contained. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like his brain tried to wake him up and he told it to shut up. His gaze drops down my face, stops atmy mouth, and something in his expression shifts—softening, darkening, hungry, and fond at the same time.
